CONNOR
After Mila left, the room felt different.
Not empty—just quieter. Like the air itself was still holding the shape of her, the warmth of where she'd been standing, the echo of her voice sayingI'll come back.
I stood there for a moment longer than I should have, watching the door she'd just walked through, and felt the pull of it. The instinct to follow. To keep her in my line of sight where I could protect her from everything the world might throw at her.
But that wasn't what she needed.
And it wasn't what I needed, either.
She was expanding. Moving forward. Living her life the way she deserved to—without shrinking herself to fit inside my fear. Without making herself smaller so I could feel like I was doing my job.
That took discipline on my part. A different kind than I was used to.
The kind that meant standing still when every fiber of my training screamed to move.
I exhaled slowly and turned back toward the room.
There was a knock at the door.
Measured. Precise. The kind that didn’t ask permission so much as announce presence.
“Come in,” I said.
Ellsworth stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him. He moved with the same composed efficiency he always did, as if he were entering a drawing room instead of the aftermath of something that had cracked me open. His hands settled behind his back out of habit, posture immaculate, eyes already assessing before they landed on me.
He didn't fill silence with unnecessary words. Didn't fidget or check his watch or shift his weight like most people did when they were uncomfortable. He justwas—steady, patient, competent in a way that made you forget he was even there until the moment you needed him.
Which, I was beginning to realize, was exactly the point.
The best operators were like that. Present without being intrusive. Capable without needing to announce it. Ready without broadcasting readiness.
Ellsworth had that in spades.
"Ellsworth," I said.
"Sir."
I crossed the room and leaned against the desk, arms folded across my chest. The wood was cool under my palms, grounding.
"I need to ask you something," I said.
"Of course, sir."
I studied him for a moment—the crisp lines of his suit that never seemed to wrinkle no matter what he did, the graying hair combed neatly back from his forehead, the faint scar near his temple that suggested a life lived before this one. A life that had involved more than tea service and pressed linens.
There was something about him that didn't quite fit the butler stereotype. Something in the way he moved—economical,precise, like a man who'd spent years learning to conserve energy for when it mattered most.
"What exactly are you allowed to do?" I asked bluntly.
He tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question from multiple angles. "In what capacity, sir?"
"As a butler."
"Ah." He cleared his throat delicately, his expression perfectly neutral. "Well, sir, my duties generally encompass household management, meal preparation and service, coordinating logistics and transportation, maintaining absolute discretion regarding the affairs of the household, and ensuring that The Sanctuary operates smoothly in all respects."
He paused, then added with just the faintest hint of a smile, "I also handle correspondence, manage the security systems, coordinate with local vendors, and ensure that linens are properly pressed."
